


Afterglow

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically post!nogistune cuddles and a whole lot of Stilinski family feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterglow

Kira’s mom leaves Stiles the last fox tail after the Nogitsune is gone. The burnt skin on the tips of Stiles’s fingers crumble off while he madly clutches to it, like it can save him from the danger that doesn’t exist in a tangible form anymore.

Scott is holding him with his firm bicep against the back of a police cruiser. The shudders cascading through him don’t stop, haven’t stopped since he started puking bile up, hunched over himself and trying to scrub the fiery feeling of _wrongness_ off of his body.

“You’re okay,” Scott says for the tenth time. “Everything will be okay.” Stiles almost chokes on a bitter laugh, but it gets clogged in his throat on the way out, drowned by the sirens.

-

The ride home is silent, save for Stiles's heavy breathing and the low hum of the police radio in the dashboard. Stiles's dad opens the car door for him and ushers him inside, to the couch and gives him a blanket. "I kind of want to sleep, dad," Stiles tells him, trying to shake the blanket off.

"Okay, but we need to talk first."

"I'm not going crazy anymore, dad." Stiles runs a hand through his hair, and it feels greasy through his fingers. His dad sits next to him on the couch, looks at him for the first time, sees the dark circles around his eyes and how pale he looks still. "The most is that I kind of hate myself right now. I won't sulk into a depression though, if that's what you're worried about."

“Hey,” his dad says sternly, calling Stiles’s attention. He’s giving Stiles his no-nonsense glare. “No one could ever blame you for what happened. You saved everyone, Stiles, by lasting as long as you did."

“I thought that you-- the dementia,” his dad smiles shakily at him. “There was still, with this, the Nogitsune, there was at least a _chance_ that you might live. What your mom had, there wasn’t any hope.” The smile is bitter and sad now, and Stiles squeezes at the hand still settled on his shoulder. “I’m selfish, Stiles. I’d always want you here alive, even with horrible consequences. Always.”

“Even if there’s the town at stake?” Stiles’s gaze stays down.

“I didn’t stutter, did I kiddo?” The sheriff’s question makes him look up. The unshed tears in his dad’s eyes make him finally tear up himself, and swiftly, he’s pulled into his father’s arms.

“I love you dad,” he chokes out into his shoulder. The sheriff claps him on the back, keeping him as close as he can.

“I love you more, kid.”

"So will you let me make you bacon for breakfast tomorrow?" Stiles has missed his father so much, he thinks to himself, and gives him a wry smile before schooling it back into a scowl.

Stiles huffs, pointing at him. "Absolutely not," he says, jumping off of the couch and stalks upstairs, not noticing his father's fond and relieved smile directed at his back.

-

“Mister Hale," the sheriff greets when he rings the doorbell. He's blocking the doorway inside, and Derek shuffles the bags of food I his hands.

"Hello Sheriff. I wanted to get you, and well, Stiles, food for tonight. I can cook it all," Derek offers quickly. The sheriff raises an eyebrow, but doesn't look suspicious, more curious. "I figure he's had a rough week. And you too, so." He doesn't remember how to speak all of a sudden, so he holds the grocery bags up when he shrugs.

The sheriff moves out of the way, allowing Derek to walk in. Derek toes his shoes off, but keeps his jacket on. “I appreciate it, Derek,” John tells him, “Stiles usually cooks but I don’t really want to ask him to right now, you know?”

“How is he?” Derek asks. The living room is empty, so Derek listens for him upstairs, and traces the sound of his slightly fast heartbeat. It doesn’t sound any more strained than usual, so he sits on the barstools in the kitchen with John on his right.

He huffs in response. “He’s, you know, not the same. But he’s not terrible either.” John rubs at his eyes tiredly. “He doesn’t seem different besides being tired and-- _guilty_ about everything. And he shouldn’t be. I don’t want to go to work and leave him alone right now, though. Claudia used to hold him." He sighs. "I wish I was good as she was at this."

“I can stay and watch him,” Derek offers, maybe a little too quickly, but John doesn’t say anything about it.

“He won’t be happy with being being watched, like he's being babysat,” John tells him. Derek nods; he knows that’s nothing but true regarding anything with Stiles. “He keeps yelling at me to stop checking on him and get sleep.”

"That's because you need to sleep and go work, because I'll be _fine_ ," a voice sounds out, startling them both. Stiles waves at Derek with a tired hand. He's wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and looks like he's ready for bed, tiredness to match. "Hey man. You're my new parole officer I guess."

"Don't be stupid," Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles chuckles, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. He walks to the fridge, takes a swig out of the milk carton, wipes his mouth off. "I don't object to you cooking for me though because, based off of the one time I've had your food, you're ten times better than I am at it."

The sheriff looks between them curiously, and Derek shrugs. He doesn't need to be told that the one time Derek had fed Stiles, he was bruised, nearly passed out, and healing from a coyote attack, and Derek had force fed him, taking the pain by pressing fingers deep into his neck. "I'm making ravioli."

"Sounds good, Derek," the sheriff replies as soon as Stiles says "there'd better be marinara and no meat sauce on that."

Derek nods, serious. "Of course not."

Stiles smiles a little, and they stare for a moment. He places a hand on the counter, rests it against Derek's and bumps them together.

Derek cooks as the sheriff watches TV in the living room, and Stiles sits and watches him as he folds the dough, stuffing cheese into the folds. He would be uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but it's Stiles; things have stopped being difficult with Stiles long ago. He can't keep his sentences as sharp as he'd want, chastising. He hates that he can’t help but sound fond.

Stiles doesn’t linger long after dinner, begging John to be excused until he finally relents and Stiles rushes upstairs. Derek wants to follow, but instead he stays with the sheriff and washes all of the dinner dishes, before John orders him to check on Stiles.

Derek toes the door open because it isn’t closed, like Stiles had wanted him to come in.

“Hey,” Stiles drawls, one hand hanging over the edge of his bed as he stares at the ceiling.

“Hi,” Derek replies quickly. He’s never been so bad at talking before, and Stiles notices this like he does with everything else, turns on his side.

“I suppose dad ordered you to check on me.”

Derek doesn’t deny that it’s true, and stays where he is. “You can talk to me about it, you know.”

Stiles sighs, closes his eyes. Derek steps closer because not being stared at gives him the confidence.

“It was never fully me,” Stiles bites out in frustration, after a few seconds of silence. The tightness in Stiles’s body is something Derek’s seen in a fighting stance, like he’s fighting the memories away. It's easy to see that he was hiding everything all of this from his father for his sake. He’s about to question him, because he goes silent, but then he adds, “He would let me talk, talk to my dad, try and save people, but it was like I-- I was censored. I was still a pawn even as myself, no matter how hard I tried. I _tried_.”

“I know,” Derek tells him, even though he’s sure that his opinions mean nothing to Stiles now. But he tries anyway, because it’s what they both need.

“I hurt people, man,” Stiles chokes out. Derek knows that the thought is killing him inside, so he grips onto his shoulder and shakes it, and he doesn’t remember the other steps he’s taken to get as close as he is now.  

He ignores Stiles’s wide, frightened eyes, but it hurts him to see that he doesn’t look scared of being hurt by Derek anymore, but that Stiles might hurt _him._ He scoots closer on the bed to show him that even if Stiles doesn’t trust himself anymore, Derek does now. It’s taken so long to be used to the fact that he would trust the skinny, annoying seventeen year old with his life now, but it’s the truth more than anything he knows.

“Stiles,” he says, gentler than he’d anticipated. “Trust me when I say there was nothing that you did wrong--” He’s interrupted by Stiles’s bitter laugh.

“I caused everything to happen, Derek. I’m the one who was possessed because I wasn’t enough to stop it. I shouldn’t have gone under to find the nemeton, I _knew_ I wasn’t going to be okay. When Deaton talked about a scar on my heart, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Derek grunts in frustration. “Stiles,” he tries again.

“And another thing,” Stiles is getting riled up now, clutching his blue pillow against his chest, sitting up on the wall. “In the end, I ended up letting him in. I couldn't stop him--"

"Stiles!" Derek yells, silencing him, and Derek doesn't know why Stiles ragging on himself is bothering him so much right now, but it _is_ , so he needs it to stop. His grip is locked tight on Stiles's calf, kneading the muscle there; he shakes it to maybe put some sense into Stiles. “There’s a reason the nogitsune chose you.”

“Yeah, because I wasn’t strong enough,” Stiles snaps, chin dipped into the pillow still.

_“No,_ ” Derek stresses. “Do you think it would have picked someone that they could have overtaken easily? You think it would have possessed someone with weak will? No, it picked you because you’re smart.” Stiles is making a face like he knows that what Derek is saying is true, but is still choosing to drown in his self-doubt, so he emphasizes: “You’re _smart_ , and it could feed off of your frustration and your ability to _fight back_. It would take a couple of seconds to overcome anyone else. You fought for almost a month, and you _still_ kicked him out in the end."

Stiles says, "Dad always says I could end the world if I really wanted, with my power of will," with a tiny grin, which Derek returns, or hopes he does, because usually his grins don't look very happy.

"You could, but it would probably be for a stupid reason." Stiles looks tired when he smiles back, more relaxed and blinking himself awake every few seconds. "Get some sleep, Stiles," Derek commands, and gets up, heading to the chair to grab a small blanket to sleep on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, suddenly sounding awake and pulling himself up on one arm.

Derek freezes with a tiny throw blanket in his hands that will barely cover half of his body, says "Sleeping on the floor," like it's obvious, and suddenly he has the saddening thought that maybe Stiles doesn't even want him sleeping in his room at all. He's about to throw the blanket back and retreat, out the window if it's quicker, but Stiles is folding the corner of his sheets and blankets up, and that wasn't what Derek was expecting at all.

"I heard what dad told you about hugs, so you're stuck on duty now," he says, but instead of mocking he sounds as unsure as Derek feels. In that moment, they're on equal ground, staring at each other in the near-darkness. "I don't want you staying on the floor. Please."

"Okay," Derek answers. His jacket is shed off but he keeps his jeans on(he had considered taking them off, but didn't want to make Stiles uncomfortable), slipping down into the sheets, pulling it over the both of them, with their shoulders and heads uncovered.

"You guys are always so warm," Stiles tells him, and he presses his hands against Derek's arms, rubbing them up and down.

Derek stiffens, but Stiles doesn't notice because he's busy rubbing heat into his freezing cold hands. Eventually, Stiles pulls away himself, and tucks his hands in between his armpits, and they just lay there.

“I’m so damn glad that Scott didn’t turn me into a wolf,” Stiles admits around a yawn, minutes or hours later, the slit of moonlight feeding through the curtains not telling them the time of night, not that they would care to know anyways.

“Oh?” Derek feels insurmountably close to him, sharing a pillow, noses inches apart, the soft billows of gentle, tired breaths brushing his skin gentler than the summer winds ever do. He can’t help his intake of breath when Stiles’s spindly, unsteady fingers take his in a tight hold, tangling the limbs into each other. Their hands rest in the space left between the bed on the ruffled sheets.

It’s a pack thing, Derek tells himself, that proximity and contact are what’s best as a comfort right now, and he keeps stroking the inner skin of Stiles’s elbow resting under his body like he can't control his own movements. He hears Stiles’s heart beating heavily, but doesn’t comment on it. It’s become easy, to just ignore everything, and even though he now feels guilt from letting something happen to Stiles because of his ignorance, the frantic pace of the Stiles’s heartbeat is nothing Derek can help, at least not now.

Stiles hums into the open air thoughtfully, choosing his words. “I may be under extraordinary, but at least as a human I can keep things normal in our dysfunctional family.” When Stiles says "family" it blooms an odd warmth in Derek's chest. Derek sees more than ever in that moment the insecurity that Stiles hides from everyone, that he’s not worth having more power.

"I think we need you, exactly like this," Derek amends, trailing his pointer finger up Stiles's neck, taking note of how deeply Stiles swallows in response to the touch. "Sleep, Stiles," Derek orders again, still touching along his skin, smooth strokes with rough fingertips.

Stiles shuffles his feet under the covers, and their legs tangle together. Derek doesn't move, lets Stiles make every decision; he needs to know that more than anything else, he still holds the power to make his own choices. Stiles stares but doesn't untangle his legs, actually scooting closer, hesitantly laying a palm on Derek's chest. Soon, his head follows, resting against his breastbone, and Derek focuses on breathing evenly, both to gain composure and as to not jostle the almost-asleep boy. He doesn't know how Stiles can do these things so easily, without boundaries. Derek wishes he could be as brave as him getting things he wants, he thinks as he rubs along the crown of Stiles's head.

He allows his hand to reach across his own chest and rub circles into Stiles's shoulders, and soon Stiles is deep asleep, snoring lightly into the cotton of his shirt.

He can hear the sheriff shuffling about downstairs, most likely checking the locks on the door, and then padding up the stairs to Stiles's door. The door cracks open, before opening farther, and his head peeks in, taking sight of them together on the bed. Derek makes to move out of Stiles's grip, but he grips him sleepily and keeps him there, so he has no choice but to look at the sheriff with his teenage son on his chest sleeping.

"How is he?" The sheriff asks him instead of pointing out the obvious, though he does give Derek a look; it's not a bad one.

Derek watches Stiles's slumbering form, and shrugs. "He's better." Stiles grumbles in his sleep and shuffles farther onto his body.

The sheriff smiles, says, "looks like." Derek isn't prepared to process what exactly  that means, and he's still confused when John begins closing the door again, muttering "night boys" under his breath to not wake his son.

The room is bathed in darkness again, and Derek feels himself getting tired. He sinks his body farther down into the bed, relaxing rather than just holding, and Stiles sighs. Derek smiles fondly at him, and without thinking, just before he falls asleep, he drops a dry kiss to his forehead at the root at his hairline with his eyes closed, sinking father until he's breathing heavily, still holding on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend Saffy, and she typed all in caps that she wanted Derek and Stiles cuddling after the nogistune with lots of feelings, and so this happened. I hope you all like it!  
> PS, I'll be writing more frequently from now on so that's a cool thing, and I hope y'all stick around!!


End file.
